Dead Sea by Peter Tonkin Page A

thirty.
    He stepped out, feeling himself relax amid the homely familiarity of the place thirty seconds later still, at eight thirty on the dot. There were fresh flowers in the reception. In the bedroom, beyond the freshly made bed he had a wardrobe full of pressed coats and suits. Cupboards full of shoes. Drawers full of socks and underwear. Shelves of shirts. Ties, cufflinks – everything he could wish for. En suite, a bathroom stocked with his preferred shaving equipment, soaps and fragrances. Across the sitting room, a kitchen groaning with his favourite foodstuffs. And, in the garage far below, both his Bentley Continental and his classic E-Type Jaguar. What more could a man require? He just had to be careful not to open the wrong door or to slide out the wrong drawer or look in the wrong cabinet – or he would find himself face-to-face with Robin’s stuff. Head to head with her absence once again. And the fears it brought, no matter how much faith he had in her.
    Fighting off his preoccupation, he showered, shaved, checked messages, found there were none from Robin or about her, ordered a wake-up call for ten o’clock and tucked down for a slightly longer power nap than Lady Thatcher had preferred, feeling very much at home. Having decided, in fact, that this would be his home for the duration. With the twins safely in the hands of irresistibly indulgent grandparents in the South of France until the academic year began in October, he had every intention of staying in the flat until Robin returned. He loved Ashenden, their great old house on the south coast, but simply could not face the thought of spending the month there alone. And in any case, staying in the London flat would put him right at the heart of the action. Not to mention, of course, that he had a world-class business to run.
    But, he had to admit to himself as he rose in response to his wake-up call, that he was hardly slumming it. He shrugged a brand-new cotton shirt over his broad shoulders, buttoned it, slipped his favourite cufflinks through the double cuffs, then stepped into midnight-blue pinstripe suit trousers. Tightening the belt around his trim waist, he strolled through to the kitchen and made himself a sandwich of crisp dry-cure smoky bacon and wholewheat toast. A cup of his favourite Blue Mountain high roast Arabica coffee, black, no sugar, and a glance at the
Financial Times
he found nestling in the wire cage behind the letterbox, then he was ready. Ten minutes later, he stepped out of the flat’s front door, every inch the leading British businessman dressed for a busy day, turned right and right again, then slid his security card into the slot beside the interconnecting door that led him through into the Heritage Mariner offices. ‘Now that,’ he said to himself, suddenly almost buoyant, ‘is what I call commuting!’
    Throughout a packed schedule of meetings, he made sure he was kept as fully abreast of the progress made by
Katapult
and
Flint
as he was of the fluctuations in market prices, of shipping schedules, of project progress, of panics; grist to the mill of Heritage Mariner. But there was nothing substantial to report on the two yachts until a conference call came through from San Francisco at seven p.m. London time. It was Nic. ‘How’s it going, old buddy?’ the American demanded, bright-eyed and ebullient as ever. It was ten a.m. PST.
    â€˜Fine.’ Richard growled. ‘Any news of the girls?’
    â€˜Nothing you won’t be on top of. But I wondered if you’d seen the Fox Special? They’ve edited it all together in record time, so I hear. I’d guessed they’d run it by your guys if they haven’t run it by mine.’
    â€˜No.’ Richard sat up, frowning. ‘Nobody here has said anything about it. When’s it going out?’
    â€˜Part of their package in the
One O’Clock News
programme.’
    â€˜If that’s Eastern Standard Time,